Prince of Dreams

  Inching forward, she leaned closer and strained through the dark to see his face. A lock of hair had fallen across his brow. His eyelids, curiously full like a child’s, reminded her of seashells. She reached out and lightly brushed the hair from his face. He stirred, his lips moving against red-gold curls.

  “Mmmmmm.” He shifted, drawing the girl closer.

  Branwen backed away until she was in deep shadow. She pulled the hood of her cloak tighter about her face and stood, a watching statue, as the man awakened.

  His hand moved along the girl’s back, sliding under the blanket. “Sweet Essylte. Sweet wife. My beautiful love.” His lips brushed her face and sought her mouth. She curled an arm around him and opened her eyes.

  “Tristan. Oh, Tristan, say it again.”

  “Marry me, Essylte. Come with me to Lyonesse. You are mine forever. It was meant to be. And I cannot live without you.”

  “Nor I without you,” she breathed, yielding to him.

  They whispered together, laughing lightly, while his hands moved and she responded with small, secret sounds of satisfaction. Their delight filled the darkness, reaching out even to Branwen standing stiffly in her corner, enveloping her in their overmastering joy, sharing with her the sweet secrets of unbearable desire.

  Furiously she fought to look away, to close her eyes, but it was beyond her power. She could not help but watch his hands on the girl’s supple body, could not but feel his tenderness as if it were her own flesh he stroked. Well she remembered the feel of that long back beneath her fingers on the sickbed in Gwynedd, alone in the dark. She could almost feel it now, moving between her hands, as he took the girl in his arms and began the long, slow dance of love. In spite of herself her breathing quickened. That was her own ear he bent to whisper into, her own throat his lips caressed with such soft care, her own sweet sighs, so eager, so alive—Ahhh, God! She shut her eyes, too late. Her own body, lit by his fire, blazed beyond her command and she was trapped, burning alive, as they took flight together, rising without her, soaring beyond the reaches of her imagination into a joy she could not alone possess.

  In the cold, silent dark Branwen stood alone and still. Silence encased her like a shroud. One by one her stiff fingers unlocked from fists and stretched at her sides. She inhaled slowly. Straightening, she stepped forward and forced herself to look again at the great bed. The lovers lay in each other’s arms, entwined, limb indistinguishable from limb, their breathing slowed again toward sleep. She looked down at Tristan. Never had she seen a face in such repose, a soul so at peace. So, wanderer, you have found what you seek. You count it worth the risk. And so must I. With dry eyes she turned away and walked to the door, lifted the latch, and let herself out.

  It was dawn, and cold. Branwen stood before the door and gathered her cloak around her. In the kitchens the slaves would be stoking the oven fires, but here no one else was up and about. Taking a deep breath, she lifted the latch and went in.

  Essylte, in the white gown with the russet cloak about her shoulders, sat on the Roman couch and wept. Tristan stood frowning beside her. He looked up as Branwen entered and met her eyes. She curtsied low.

  “Good morning, Branwen.”

  “Good morning, my lord, my lady. I beg your pardon for oversleeping.” She glanced briefly toward Essylte. “Why is my lady weeping?”

  Tristan half smiled. Reaching for Essylte’s arm, he drew her into his embrace. “Why do you think? You needn’t play the innocent with me. You know well we have been the night together.”

  Branwen colored at the direct look in his eyes. “My lord?”

  “You left us for the purpose. Do you deny it?”

  She hesitated only a moment. “No, my lord.”

  “I thought so. For that, you owe us the use of your wits to help us find a way out of my lady’s dilemma.”

  “What dilemma is that, my lord?”

  Tristan’s arm tightened around Essylte’s shoulders but his eyes never left Branwen’s face.

  “What do you think?” he repeated softly. “She is torn between her promise to her father and her promise to me.” Tristan touched the tangled red-gold curls that tumbled down her back. Branwen, watching, could almost feel the infinite tenderness of the gesture. “With her lips she has promised Percival to marry Markion; with her body she has promised to marry me. Either way, she will disappoint someone she loves.”

  Essylte, her arms around Tristan’s waist, looked up at Branwen with reddened eyes. “Oh, Branny! Whatever shall I do? Father will be so angry. I cannot leave Tristan, and yet, and yet— Don’t you see? The peace between the kingdoms depends upon it.”

  “You can’t leave me.” He kissed her warmly. “You are mine now. Your father will come to understand it.”

  “He never will. He will invade Cornwall, he will attack Lyonesse to get me back. You don’t know him when his passions are aroused.”

  With a glimmer of a smile, Tristan bent and whispered in her ear. She colored, smiled, and kissed him quickly. “Stop, Tristan. Please, stop just a moment and give this thought.” She glanced beseechingly at Branwen. “Please help us, Branny, won’t you? Help us decide what’s best to do?”

  “I think,” Branwen said calmly, “we had better put the chamber back to rights, light the fire, break our fast, and then sit down to conference.”

  “Yes,” Essylte agreed at once. “And I must change my gown, and do my hair—I look a fright, I’m sure. Please, Tristan”—this as his arms tightened and pulled her closer—“we cannot think straight now. Everything will be clearer after breakfast.”

  “After breakfast will make no difference. You are mine, Essylte.” He kissed her again.

  Branwen walked him to the door. “Go stealthily and make sure no one sees you,” she said in a low voice.

  Tristan raised an eyebrow. “Are we keeping this a secret?”

  “It’s for the best, my lord, at least at present. It gives you both more choices.”

  “There is only one choice.” Branwen did not reply, and Tristan shrugged. “Have it your way, then. I’ll be discreet.”

  Back in his own chamber, Tristan dressed slowly, changing Junius’s fine wool tunic and cloak for the leather tunic, leggings, and boots he had arrived in. Someone had closed the shutters since he’d stood gazing at the stars last night. He pushed them open. It was a fine morning, quiet and cool. A gray-pink mist lay on the estuary, steaming upward as the sun slowly strengthened. The glorious joy that had possessed him all night long still sang loud in his soul; he could hardly keep from smiling. But a shadow tugged at the edges of his happiness, a nameless dread that touched him with a cold, fleeting finger. He shivered.

  Behind him the door opened.

  “Good morning, my lord.” Junius bowed. His quick eyes glanced at the bed, neatly made, and the face he raised to Tristan held no expression whatsoever.

  “Don’t worry,” Tristan said lightly, “it was innocent enough. Thank you for the loan of those clothes. We had a wonderful evening.”

  Junius bundled the garments under his arm. “On occasion, the company of young ladies can be delightful indeed. Shall I bring you breakfast, my lord? One of the stable lads caught three fine fish at dawning. They’re roasting now on the spit.”

  “Thank you, no. I’m breaking fast with the Princess Essylte and Branwen. But you can bring me a bath slave and a razor.”

  Amusement lit Junius’s features. “My lord was shaved last night.”

  Tristan smiled. “My lord will shave again.”

  Junius grinned. “Women do love a smooth cheek.” He chuckled, nudging Tristan. “What did I tell you, eh? Pretty as a picture, she is, and soft on you, although she hides it. You had no trouble, I’ll wager.”

  Tristan colored, unable to speak.

  “A word of advice, my lord.” Junius was peering out the window into the lifting haze. “Don’t let her mistress know. There’ll be trouble later, at King Mark’s court. There always is.”

  He was speaking of Branw
en! In the midst of his relief, Tristan felt again the cold finger of dread. I swear before Christ I will not touch her. She is Markion’s bride. He stifled a gasp as the witch’s curse came back to him. Twice will you swear before your God an oath you cannot keep—lies you will be called to answer for.

  “Dear God!” He sank to his knees. “What have I done?”

  “There, there,” Junius said kindly, dropping a hand onto his shoulder. “You can hardly be blamed. A young man in the prime of life, a pretty maiden who is willing—just see it doesn’t continue past arrival at Markion’s court. Everything will be all right.”

  Tristan looked up, unseeing. “How can it?”

  “Come, my lord, pull yourself together. I’ll send you a bath slave. And after breakfast, we should send a courier to the king.”

  “To Mark?” Tristan blinked. “Why?”

  “Why, to warn him of your coming. As far as he knows, you’re still in Wales. There are preparations to be made for receiving the young princess. And for the wedding. You’ll be there before the week is out. You must send the courier without delay.”

  Tristan rose, struggling to think straight. “Yes, yes, of course. But not yet, good Junius. I’m not sure yet where—when we leave. Let me speak once more with Princess Essylte. Surely tomorrow will be soon enough.”

  Junius frowned. “Today is better. If the ship is ready.”

  “Just so,” Tristan countered smoothly. “I must inspect her and talk with the captain. She was damaged in the storm. It may take time to put her right. I will let you know, Junius, when to send the courier. Later.”

  “Very good, my lord.” Junius bowed, and Tristan began to pace back and forth across the room.

  Branwen opened the door to Tristan’s knocking. The chamber he entered was Guvranyl’s once more, simple and unadorned but for the little table, all signs of last night’s revelry gone without a trace. As if it never had been.

  Essylte stood by the window in a dark gray gown, her red-gold hair alight with the morning sun. She looked, Tristan thought, like a flame new-sprung from ashes. When she turned to him his breath caught in his chest, struck again by the arrow of desire. In three swift strides she was in his arms, holding him with all her slender strength, whispering the words he wanted most to hear.

  “An hour away,” he breathed, his lips on hers, “is a year of agony. Sweet Essylte, I cannot part from you.”

  They were interrupted by servants entering with breakfast: willow tea, freshly baked bread, bowls of raisins and warm honey. Reluctantly, they came to table at Branwen’s bidding, eating little, but holding hands throughout, as if each touch might be their last. Branwen served them silently and tended to the coal fire in the grate.

  “We are ready for a conference,” Essylte said, pushing away the food.

  “Tell her, Branwen,” Tristan pleaded. “Tell her she is only leaving her father for her husband. She needn’t be afraid. It will be all right.”

  Branwen looked up. “Will it, my lord? Essylte knows what her father’s reaction will be.”

  “Can’t we reason with him?” Tristan turned to Essylte. “Your father honored me in Wales. In Cornwall, I’m second only to Markion. You would be nobly wed. Won’t that be honor enough for him?”

  Essylte gulped. “Tristan, he has this dream of uniting all the tribes of Britain under one High King, of making us strong again, as we were in Arthur’s time. He—he will sacrifice anything to this dream.”

  “He has already sacrificed his daughter to it,” Branwen murmured.

  “If Mark does not wed, I will be his heir. Is that not good enough?”

  Both women stared at him. Branwen was the first to speak. “And yet you came to Wales to fetch his bride?”

  “I never wanted to be High King of Britain,” he said levelly. “Until now.”

  “Surely Markion will wed another in my lady’s place,” Branwen pointed out. “Had he been content to leave the Kingdom in your hands, he would not have sent Lord Segward in the first place. So you cannot fulfill King Percival’s ambition unless you can prevent your uncle’s marriage. You must kill him, then. By war or by stealth.”

  Tristan rose in agitation. “I will not kill him. I have sworn oaths of fealty to him, and he has done nothing to wrong me.” He turned to Essylte. “I would be the rogue your mother thinks me, to do such a thing.”

  “Don’t bring dishonor upon yourself,” Essylte begged. “Not for my sake.”

  “Then,” Branwen said calmly, “there seems to be no way for Essylte to wed you without angering her father.”

  Tristan stood behind Essylte and cupped her shoulders in his hands.

  “How angry will he be? Surely he remembers what youth is like. I have even heard that he married for love against his family’s advice.”

  “Yes,” Branwen said softly. “And look where it got him.”

  “He will never forgive me,” Essylte said, shaking. “I know well what he will do. He will demand justice of Markion. Nothing will content him but—but your death, and my return. At first he will think I was abducted, and will raise an army himself to get me back. But when he learns I broke my promise to him of my own will, he will—he will consider I have betrayed him, and shamed him before Markion.” Her voice began to quaver. Tristan gripped her shoulders firmly. “My mother will drive him mad. She will taunt him with it endlessly. She will dangle Palomydes’s memory in his face. She will never let him forget it. He will be so miserable! He will never forgive me.”

  “Yes,” Tristan murmured, “but will he bring his army south? Without you, there is no treaty between the kingdoms. Will he join Markion against me?” Essylte shuddered but did not answer. Tristan looked at Branwen. “What do you think?”

  “What choice will he have?” she said softly. “He must do something to redeem his honor, even if his dream is denied him.”

  Tristan shrugged and began to pace the room.

  “As for my uncle Mark, it is perfectly clear what he will do. I am the only man in Cornwall he has reason to fear, and I have slapped his face. Mark’s always been touchy about his honor. He wouldn’t be Markion if he didn’t come after me. There is only one thing he can do: marshal his forces and take back what was promised to him.” He turned sharply on his heel as Essylte began to weep silent tears. “When I lay with Essylte, I betrayed Mark. He must kill me now. He will publicly accuse me of treason and rape, and then he will attack me.”

  “Oh, no!” Essylte cried. “Not on my account! Let this not happen all on my account!”

  Tristan knelt beside her chair and clasped her hands. “My sweet love, you cannot help who you are. And neither can I.”

  “Oh, Tristan, can’t you send to him and speak privately with him? We need his help with Father. Wouldn’t he understand? He must have been young once.”

  “He will understand no better than your father,” Tristan said gently. “Mark never loved a woman in his life. And my dearest, you are not just any woman. You are Percival’s daughter. Marriage to you means something for Britain’s future. No one else would serve his purpose. To take you from him is to challenge his authority, his future, his very rule. At least, that is how Mark will see it. In his calmer moments. But he is not a reflective man and will be furious at my betrayal. He will come against me openly to satisfy his honor. He must.”

  Branwen spoke quietly. “Can you withstand him? If Percival doesn’t join him?”

  Tristan shrugged. “Lyonesse is a tiny kingdom, hard against the sea. Even if only Cornishmen come against me, there will be more than enough. Even many who love me, like Guvranyl himself, the lords of Dumnonia and Dorria, will likely join Markion against me in this cause.” He paused, holding tight to Essylte’s hands. “I have betrayed him. Last night I—I didn’t see it so, God knows. But that is the way everyone else will see it. And it is true.”

  Essylte bit her lip hard against fresh tears.

  “Lyon’s Head, my fortress, is impregnable. It cannot be taken by sea, and two men can hol
d the causeway against an army of any size. But Lyonesse herself is easy enough to overrun. All Mark need do is sit down outside my gates, cut off my people from me, and starve me out. And what he will do to my people while he is waiting . . .” His voice shook. “He will burn their homes and ravage their lands, and lay it all to my account. The coward king, trapped inside his fortress—” He turned away sharply and rose. “That,” he said angrily to Branwen, “is what Mark will do, with or without Percival beside him.”

  “And if he kills you,” Branwen said evenly, “what will happen to Essylte?”

  Tristan stared at her, breathing hard, and then lowered his eyes. “I don’t know. It’s—it’s unlikely Mark would settle for my—my widow. He would probably—I don’t know—send her home to her father in disgrace. I couldn’t—I wouldn’t allow that to happen.”

  “But how could you prevent it?” Branwen asked mildly. “Unless you jump together into the sea?” Tristan did not answer. “It seems, my lord,” she continued, “that you cannot go to Lyonesse. It isn’t safe for my lady.”

  “Oh, God!” Essylte buried her face in her hands. “Where can we go, then?”

  “Not to Wales. Not to Cornwall. Not to Lyonesse.” Branwen ticked the places off upon her fingers. “Not to Strathclyde, ruled by Percival’s kin; not to Rheged, bound by treaties to Strathclyde. Not to Lothian or Elmet—the whole northern alliance is bound by treaty to one another. They are more likely to see this as a chance to force Percival to their side, a thing he has long resisted. They can’t wait to make war on Cornwall. He alone has held out for years, hoping for unity and peace. Wherever you go, they will use this as an excuse to seduce Wales and start the war they have always wanted, Briton against Briton.”

  Essylte sobbed openly. “That is my father’s nightmare! I have destroyed his dream. It is all my doing.”

  “No,” Tristan said gravely, “I brought this calamity upon us both, upon us all. Because I love you.” He squared his shoulders and looked into Essylte’s eyes. “Whatever happens, you belong with me. We will leave Britain, then, if there is no place for us here. I can commandeer the ship and sail to Less Britain, or Gaul, or Ireland. I will take service with some king . . . we may not live as king and queen, but at least we will live together.”